


Can't Lose You Now

by IneffableToreshi



Category: Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: 6000 Years of Pining (Good Omens), 6000 Years of Slow Burn (Good Omens), Bottom Crowley (Good Omens), Crowley's Flat (Good Omens), Eventual Smut, Explicit Sexual Content, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Fluff and Smut, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), Ineffable Idiots (Good Omens), M/M, Passion, Romantic Fluff, Smut, The Apocalypse that Wasn't, Top Aziraphale (Good Omens), Worried Aziraphale (Good Omens), Worried Crowley (Good Omens), aziraphale takes the lead, good omens - Freeform, i love these two so much, ineffable, ngk, not-apocalypse
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-08-12
Updated: 2019-09-01
Packaged: 2020-08-19 22:23:51
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 18,289
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20217256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/IneffableToreshi/pseuds/IneffableToreshi
Summary: The night of the Apocalypse-that-Wasn't, the ineffable two return to Crowley's flat. Aziraphale sleeps, Crowley angsts, a nightmare is had, and the two realize that they still have so much more to lose.





	1. Of Love That Mustn't Be Lost

**Author's Note:**

> This is my first fic on the site (NOT my first fic in general, but, you know) so be nice, ya'll. ^_~
> 
> This little story of mine is going to be comprised of three parts:  
Part One (this one) takes place the night of the Not-Apocalypse and is primarily angsty fluff.  
Part Two will take place during the body swap, and will also be primarily angsty fluff, maybe with a bit more fluff.  
Part Three will take place the night after the body swap and will roam into smut territory. *evil grin*
> 
> If you enjoy my writing, please check out my other stuff by browsing my blog over at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoy my writing, please check out my original books or consider supporting my Patreon!  
https://www.patreon.com/TraceyLynnTobin

On a bus listed for Oxford, but currently heading toward London just the same, are seated an angel and a demon. They have just been part of thwarting Armageddon, and are quite proud of themselves. They are also, however, rather concerned about what the future holds. For surely Heaven and Hell will decide to enact revenge on them for putting a halt to their long-awaited war.

They've been sharing a bottle of wine - despite some unimpressed glares from the bus driver - and by the time it's gone they're both just tipsy enough to find themselves sinking into quiet introspection. Crowley, in particular, stares out the window at the passing city lights, wondering how it could seem that the past twenty-four hours were longer and harder on him than the majority of the prior 6000 years.

It's a soft, almost childlike snore that brings him back to himself. He turns to look at Aziraphale and finds that the angel has slumped forward in his chair, eyes closed, dozing gently. The sight is a surprising one. While Crowley himself has always been a particular fan of sleep, he knows that it's never been the angel's cup of tea. In fact, upon consideration, he can't ever recall having personally seen Aziraphale so much as yawn.

But then, he supposes with an amused smirk, if there was ever a day that would wear out even a celestial being, this has been it.

He's stretching in a rather exuberant yawn himself when Aziraphale makes a small, dreamish sound, adjusts in his sleep, and Crowley finds himself sitting stock still with the angel's head snuggled up against his chest.

"Uh…angel?" he whispers at first, then just a tiny bit louder: "Angel? You're, uh…"

Aziraphale makes another small noise - almost as if he's talking in his sleep, but there are no discernible words - and Crowley decides he can't bear to wake his friend up. He deserves his rest. Instead, he wraps his arm around the back of the angel's chair and tries his best to imagine that he's comfortable.

When the bus finally arrives - conveniently right in front of Crowley's building - he has to make a decision, because the angel never did definitively establish what he was planning to do tonight. But the bookshop is gone, he can hardly abandon his friend on the bus, and he'd still rather not wake him just yet when he's sleeping so soundly, so the decision is made quickly. Ignoring the surprised look on the bus driver's face, Crowley scoops Aziraphale up into his lanky arms, carrying him like a groom with his bride toward the threshold-

_fuck me, where did that image come from?_

\- and carries him off the bus toward the building.

Moving slowly and deliberately, the demon manages to make his way up to the penthouse flat by miracling doors open and shut as quietly as he can. Through the foyer, past his plants - whom he glares at in silent, but effective, warning - past the minimalist living space, and down the hall to the bedroom, carrying his sleeping angel. The bed - an enormous monstrosity of a thing they haven't assigned a proper size designation for - is the coziest spot in the entire flat. Crowley likes his sleep, after all, and he likes it warm and comfortable. He has piles of pillows, the softest sheets found on the planet, and a mattress as soft as angel feathers. It will be the perfect place for Aziraphale to get his much needed rest.

But as he moves to place the angel down into his warm nest, Crowley finds he is rather reluctant to do so. Currently Aziraphale's cheek is pressed comfortably against Crowley's shoulder, almost against the demon's neck. He's breathing so gently, a soft rise and fall of the chest, his breath sweet against Crowley's skin. His body is warm. His presence is so…

Crowley bites his tongue, both figuratively and literally. This is no time to be letting his own foolish desires overwhelm him. He can fight with those internal issues on another day. Right now, the important thing is letting Aziraphale get his sleep. So, as gently and carefully as he can, Crowley lowers his angel down onto the mattress and a pile of pillows.

He is pulling away, proud that he managed to get the angel all the way up here without stirring him, when he begins to consider the clothes. It starts with a snap of a finger to transfer the angel's beloved jacket and bow-tie from his body to a hanger in the closet so they don't get wrinkled. This, he is quite certain, would be deeply appreciated. A second snap removes the shoes - Crowley can't imagine the thought of wearing shoes to bed would be at all acceptable to the fussy angel. But the question was whether to go further. Crowley himself preferred to sleep completely free of restraint, feeling the soft blankets on every inch of his skin, but he doesn't see that being the angel's style, and besides, the very thought has his body burning from head to toe.

But he also doesn't want Aziraphale to be too warm or to get uncomfortable. The angel has always clothed himself in so damn many layers, he's bound to overheat or wake up with crease lines all over every inch of his soft, beautiful bo-

Crowley's face feels like it's on fire. He shakes his head firmly, vehemently, and forces a quiet snarl through his lips just for good measure. Then, without thinking about it any longer, he snaps his fingers again. In the next moment Aziraphale is clothed in soft, white, silk pajamas and his regular attire is in a neatly folded stack on the bedside table. Crowley shudders a little at this. He's never folded clothes even once in his long life before now.

This last bit he feels he has to do by hand, though he couldn't possibly have articulated his reasoning without stuttering and stammering his way right through the floor. He approaches the edge of the bed, soft and quiet, and gently pulls the most comfortable of his blankets up around the angel's shoulders, tucking him in.

He looks so warm and cozy and restful that a soft smile plays across Crowley's lips.

He longs to climb into that bed with his angel, coil up against him and share his warmth, feel his heart beating-

_No, bad demon. Bad Crowley!_

_Well, duh, who do you think you're talking to?_

Crowley gnawed at his bottom lip. It was his bed, after all. He was well within his rights to climb into it. And while he was in there, if he just happened to move a little closer…toss an arm around the angel's waist…bury his nose in the angel's hair…

"Crow…ley…"

The sound of his name was tiny, soft, and sleep-addled, and made Crowley's heart threaten to climb out his throat, pack up, and run away at top speed. On the pillow where he'd laid him, Aziraphale's eyes fluttered in that strange place between waking and dreaming. He was looking at Crowley, but not really focused, still half in whatever images had been floating around his unconscious head. "S'your flat?" he mumbled, barely coherent.

Crowley dropped to his knees beside the bed so that he was face-to-face with Aziraphale. "Yes, angel, my flat," he confirmed, keeping his voice low. "You just rest now, okay?"

"M,kay…" An adorable yawn, a tiny flex of muscles. "Thank you…dear…" And he was out again, his flush lips gently parted just inches away from the demon's.

Crowley was down the hall and in the shower - fully clothed, with the water set to 'arctic chill' - in 1.8 seconds.

_BAD. NO. STOP. THINKING. THINGS._

He was shivering madly from the cold water running down his back and down the legs of his trousers, but his face felt flushed as if he were neck deep in a hot spring.

It's…just adrenaline… he justified to himself. And, you know…all those other foolish…human hormone…things. Too much excitement. Almost-the-end-of-the-world and all that.

But of course he knew this was a lie.

Crowley had been head over heels for Aziraphale for an exceptionally long time. Though he wouldn't even consider admitting it to himself for the first couple of millennia, he'd eventually been forced to face the facts that his feelings had been growing since the day they'd met on the Garden wall. From the moment the beautiful, kind, foolish angel had told him he'd given away his flaming sword, he'd been smitten. It was that small, angelic-and-yet-un-angelic move that had sparked something deep in Crowley's blackened heart, and that spark had, over the years, become a roaring fire that threatened to burn down all of England.

But, of course, he knew it was something that could never be. An angel and a demon? The very prospect was laughable, pure insanity. Aziraphale was a wondrous being of light and love and devotion, but to love a demon? Impossible. Unfathomable. Just…not bloody likely. At all.

Still, even knowing his feelings would never be reciprocated, Crowley couldn't help showing them in his little ways throughout the years. A dinner here, a free miracle there. Gifts of rare old books, nights of good wine and good laughs. And, every so often, a gallant (or so he told himself) rescue from a dangerous situation.

Yes, truly, anyone with a single brain cell to their name would be capable of seeing Crowley's love for his angel.

Except, perhaps, the angel himself.

Crowley knew that certain things that had been said recently had been said out of fear and desperation. He _knew_ that, but right now, with body shivering madly and unrequited love weighing heavily on his mind, he hears those certain things as clearly as if they were being shouted at him again, right this moment, and he feels the ache in his chest burn exactly the same way as it did the first time.

_"We're not friends. I don't even like you!"_

No, not friends. He knows this. He's come to accept this. Acquaintances who happen to know each other rather well. Enemies who occasionally do each other favours. And, once or twice, comrades-in-arms against a common foe. But friends? No. Absolutely not. And definitely nothing…more.

_"I don't even like you!"_

Crowley feels tired, sore all over, and drained in a way he couldn't possible describe.

Eventually he shuts off the water. He walks across the bathroom, his clothes sopping wet, dripping all over the floor. He raises a hand to 'snap' them dry, but suddenly he can't seem to find the will to bother or care. He feels exhausted and heavy and drowning in emotions he _shouldn't even be able to feel, dammit_. Heedless of the mess he makes throughout his flat, the demon stalks his way to the living room, flops his cold, soaked body onto an armchair, and closes his eyes, hoping to also close his heart against the ache that's been growing deep within it.

\---

"Crowley? Crowley, dear, wake up!"

He can barely open his eyes. He's cold…so cold. Wet… Why is he wet? His mind is so hazy and sleepy he can barely recall. But he manages to open one eye, halfway, and then the other, and when the sleepy haze begins to clear he sees an angel kneeling in front of him, looking very concerned.

A gentle hand on his face. It feels so warm against his cold skin, it almost burns. "My dear boy, why are you sopping wet?" the angel asks. His eyebrows are knitted up in genuine worry. "My lord, you're freezing! Don't you realize you're a snake, Crowley?"

He's trying to listen, but his eyelids feel so heavy…

"Come on now, dear." A few gentle taps to the face that make his eyes open a little again. Then a shuffling, and suddenly he's being lifted from under the arms. He feels so very heavy. "Come on, dear. Let's get you warmed back up before you go into shock."

He's cognisant of movement, but his eyes won't focus and he has no idea where he's going. He thinks he might be moving his legs, but isn't entirely certain that he's not being dragged. 

Then, suddenly, he's down again, propped against a wall, and he can hear water running. A soft, gentle sound. Soothing. He begins to drift off again…

A sharper tap to his cheek this time. "None of that! I'll not have you slipping away from me in such an idiotic way, foolish serpent."

He thinks he hisses, but isn't sure he didn't imagine it.

Now he feels hands moving against him. It feels like his skin is being peeled away in layers, but it doesn't hurt. It seems, at least a bit, to take some of the heaviness away. He feels lighter somehow, though still very cold, still very tired…his eyes flutter closed.

And now he _knows_ that he hisses, loudly, because it comes shooting from behind his teeth as his body is suddenly engulfed by unexpected warmth that burns against the chill that's sunken deep into him.

"Shhh, shhhh, it's okay. Just relax."

A hand on his shoulder, pushing him back so that he's laying in the water up to his neck. "Relax and you'll feel better in a few moments."

He does. He feels his body melting in the warm water, his muscles waking up again, his mind slowly returning to him. He lets out a long, grateful sigh.

"There now. Much better."

Crowley is finally able to focus on what's happening.

He's in the bathtub.

And Aziraphale is sitting on the tub's edge, watching him.

_HesinthebathtubandAziraphaleissittingonthetubsedgewatchinghim._

He nearly drowns himself in his panic, first slipping backward, dunking his head, then coming up spitting and sputtering, hair slicked down against his skull, dripping in his face. He panics to cover himself and realizes a moment later that Aziraphale has left him his dignity by neglecting to remove his snug black pants.

Aziraphale blessedly ignores the brief moment of aquatic acrobatics and offers a soft, if tired, smile. "Now, dear, would you like to explain why I found you in an armchair in cold, drenched clothes?" he asked. "You must realize that your cold-blooded nature is rather at odds with such a strange lifestyle choice." He raised an eyebrow, teasing, but Crowley could see just a spark of anger in the angel's eyes. "I was worried you were going to slip into a coma, you fool," he added with a huff.

Crowley gritted his teeth and stared back at the angel, mind going a mile a minute, seeking some excuse, any reasonable excuse, as to why he would have purposely drenched himself in cold water and then just sat there soaking in it. Absolutely nothing would come. And Aziraphale had taken his glasses, so he wasn't even certain he'd be able to lie convincingly even if he did come up with something.

_Maybe I'll just drown myself. Seems like a pleasant way to celebrate saving the world._

He actually did slither further down into the tub, intending to sink his head below the surface and hope for the issue to miraculously vanish, but Aziraphale snagged him by the hair and pulled up, hard.

"Ow ow ow ow!" Crowley exclaimed, swatting at the angel's hand. "For fuck sakes, not the hair!" Aziraphale lets go and Crowley rubs his aching scalp.

The angel does not look amused. In fact, he looks rather pissed off. Crowley is actually caught completely off guard. He's not sure he's ever seen Aziraphale look at him quite like that.

"Do you know what I was doing before I found you out there?" the angel asks, lips pursed.

Crowley simply shakes his head. Some water from his hair drips into his serpentine eyes, but he doesn't blink.

"I was having a nightmare," Aziraphale continued. "The first nightmare I've ever had in my long existence." He looks exceptionally put upon. "And do you know what that nightmare was about?"

Crowley shakes his head again. He's looking up at the angel, who is glaring down at him in the tub, and he feels suddenly very much like a naughty school-child who is being scolded for scaling the schoolhouse walls.

"It was about you," Aziraphale said. His tone was still angry, but his eyes told a different story. Fear? Genuine _fear?_ "I dreamed that Hell came for you. They came and discorporated you and dragged you away and-" His voice cracks a little. He closes his eyes, takes a deep breath before opening them and continuing. "And then I woke, all alone in your bed, and I panicked, Crowley. I panicked because I didn't know where you were. I didn't know-" Another hitch in his voice. Another breath, this time rolling his eyes to the ceiling as if to will away the wetness that was building in them. "And then I find you out there positively soaked in cold water, pale as fresh snow, slipping away…" His eyes dropped, and he glared again, angry, but his treacherous eyes full of tears. "I know it wouldn't have _killed_ you, but with your serpent blood…were you trying to put yourself in a coma? Or discorporate yourself and go careening back down to Hell where they'd do goodness knows what to you? You…you…" He struggles for the words, finally settles on, "You scared me!"

Crowley's mouth opens and closes several times. "I'm…sorry," he says, lamely.

Aziraphale glares at him, and then stands quite suddenly, and for the first time Crowley notices he's still wearing the silk pajamas he conjured. The angel turns his head and huffs. "Yes, well…so am I," he says. And then suddenly he's striding out of the room without looking back. "I'll make us some tea," he says as he goes. "Try to resist the urge to turn your bath to ice in my absence."

Crowley blinks after him. He gnaws on his lower lip and stares at the doorway where his angel has just disappeared. _A nightmare…about me…_

He gets out of the bath and towels off slowly. Slinks to his room, swaps his pants for a fresh, dry pair. He almost re-dresses in his usual attire, but at a second thought, thinking of Aziraphale's concern about his body heat, he opts for something warmer that he almost never wears: a pair of soft black pajama pants and a blood-red sweater.

As he approaches the kitchen he can hear banging and angry shouting and something that sounds like, "Stupid! Idiot! Imbecile!" He can only assume the angel is talking about him. A part of him wants to puff up, shout back, defend himself, but he's feeling rather agreeable with those statements at the moment, so instead he saunters into the kitchen with his hands in his pockets and his head down. When Aziraphale doesn't immediately notice him he leans against the door frame and watches the angel banging through cupboards with reckless abandon, searching for something. Crowley spies two mugs and two tea bags on the counter-top and realizes the angel is looking for his kettle, albeit with a little more emotion than is strictly required for the task.

Crowley slinks over to a lower cupboard that Aziraphale hasn't yet gotten to rummaging, pulls out the offending appliance, and places it rather gently on the counter-top. Aziraphale glares out of the corner of his eye before dropping his elbows to the counter with a thick sigh, pressing his fingers to the sides of his head.

"A-are you mad at me?"

Crowley didn't mean for the question to sound so positively pathetic, but he can't help the sadness that seeps through his voice at the thought.

Aziraphale lets out another sigh, but this one his heavy with a mixture of other emotions. Anger has thankfully drifted away for the time being. "No, I'm not mad at you…I'm just…upset with other things."

Crowley dares to move a little closer. They're still a few feet apart, but he can see his angel's features now. "I really am sorry," he says, voice quiet. "I didn't even consider the concept you having a nightmare. I've never even known you to sleep before."

"Oh, dear, it's not your fault I had a nightmare," Aziraphale waves this off. He seems calm for a moment, but then whirls on the demon with a finger wagging out in front of him. "But it IS your fault that you nearly went hypothermic! What on Earth were you thinking?" he demands, crossing his arms and glaring.

Crowley is immediately contrite. What was I thinking? I was thinking about how badly I want to take you in my arms and hold you like you're the only other being in the Universe, and I was thinking about how you'd never allow something like that to happen.

"Wasn' thinkin'…" is what he eventually murmurs.

Aziraphale's face softens a bit and he sighs. "Look at us," he says. "Apocalypse has just been averted. The world has been saved. And to look at the two of us now…" He settles Crowley with a look that the demon can't translate; something full of fear and frustration. "I'm scared, Crowley…"

Crowley tries to force what he hopes is a cocky, self-assured grin, but it feels more like a grimace. "Don't worry, angel," he says. "I'm sure Heaven will go easy on you."

Aziraphale lets out a puff of air, something partway between a sigh and a snort. "You bloody idiot," he growls, causing Crowley's eyebrows to raise. The angel shakes his head, a sad smile playing across his lips. "It's not me I'm worried about; it's you, you foolish thing." He raises his eyes back to Crowley's and that sad smile twitches at one corner. "I keep thinking about what Hell is going to do to you if they get their hands on you, and I'm absolutely terrified because I know it won't be good, I know it could be…permanent…and I just can't- I can't lose you now that-" His voice hitched and shuddered to a stop.

Crowley's heart is beating very hard against his ribs, very insistent, almost agonising. "Now that what?" The question is barely a whisper.

Aziraphale averts his eyes again, starts worrying on his lower lip. "Things have become clearer to me now than they have been in a very long time," he says very quietly. "And I can't push it away any longer. I'm terrified for tomorrow so I need to take advantage of today while we have it. I need too… I need to tell you…"

Crowley's hand snakes out and snatches up one of Aziraphale's wrists, holding him tight and stopping him short. The demon doesn't need to breathe to live, but he feels like he's gasping for air, choking for it, is certain he's going to asphyxiate. Or discorporate. Or both. "Don't," he tells Aziraphale. "If you don't mean it with every single fibre of your being, just don't. I couldn't-" He pauses only to let out a low sound a bit like a sob. "I wouldn't survive it." He lays it all bare. "After thinking I lost you in the fire, and… And… Angel, I wouldn't survive it." And now he hates himself because he can feel the tears running down his face and he can't stop them. He let's himself sink to the kitchen floor, because he doesn't think he can support his own weight any longer.

Aziraphale follows him down, kneeling in front of him. He reaches forward with a gentle, shaking hand and places it against Crowley's cheek. "Oh my dear, sweet, Crowley," he sighs. "I've said such awful things to you because of my fear and weakness. But the thing I fear most now is leaving it unsaid when I've no idea how much time we have left."

Crowley can't stop trembling. He feels like he's been trembling now for 6000 years.

"My dear, foolish, insufferable demon," Aziraphale says with tears in his eyes and a smile on his lips, "I love you. With all my heart."

Crowley has dreamed about this day, fantasized about it in the deepest, darkest moments of his existence, knowing, knowing, that it would never be real. Never letting himself believe for even a second that it would ever be anything more than a terrible, wonderful wish.

And now it's come and he can't move, can't speak, can't formulate anything even remotely resembling a coherent thought. He stares, unblinking, cheeks wet, not breathing - pretty certain his heart has stopped beating as well - and has no idea what to do.

Aziraphale decides for him. The angel reaches up with his other hand, cups the demon's face in a gentle, feather-light touch, leans forward, and presses their lips together.

It's the simplest of kisses. Small, gentle, chaste. The kind of first kiss shared between two young lovers who are feeling each other out. It lasts only a moment, but it lasts a millennia. And when Aziraphale pulls back and looks at Crowley with naked, probing vulnerability in his eyes, the demon's spell breaks.

"I love you too, Aziraphale," he breathes.

And then he's pressed himself back into those beautiful, smiling lips.

Crowley's kiss is deeper, harder, filled with desperate, aching passion and the longing of a 6000 year wait. The kind of kiss shared between lovers who never thought they'd see each other again and spent every waking second thinking of each other. It lasts a millennia, but it only lasts a moment.

They break away and they're both gasping, chests heaving with the wonder and pain of it all.

Crowley takes both of Aziraphale's hands in his own and holds them tight, as if willing them to become one so they can never be separated again. "We have to think of something," he says. "We have to, because…because I can't lose this now you've…" He can't articulate. He feels like he wants to laugh but at the same time he's choking with more fear than he's ever felt for his own life.

Aziraphale is nodding, his eyes and cheeks as wet as the demon's. "I know," he says. "There must be a way. Something we can do or say, something in Agnes Nutter's prophecy that would make them leave us alone." His eyes look terrified again. "Because I'm certain they have nothing good in store for either of us."

Crowley pulls the angel toward him, wraps him in his long, thin arms, desperate to chase the fear away. Aziraphale's hair smells like fresh air on a new Spring day. Like lilaacs and fine wine and the softest, truest love. "Whatever those bastards upstairs have waiting for you," he said, "I'd take your place in a second if I could."

Aziraphale wraps his arms around his demon's waist and lets loose a little sob. "I'd do the same for you," he says, "Make no mistake."

They sit there together, on the floor of Crowley's sparkling, rarely-used kitchen, tea completely forgotten, holding each other as only the deepest of true loves can do. It takes a full minute before the thought occurs to them, simultaneously, and they push each other away to stare into each other's wide eyes.

"Playing with fire... Do you think-?" starts Crowley.

"Choose your faces wisely... Could it work?" asks Aziraphale.

_It has to._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoy my writing, please check out my original books or consider supporting my Patreon!  
https://www.patreon.com/TraceyLynnTobin


	2. Choose Your Faces

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a literary retelling of the Switch with a bit more detail and thoughts from both of our boys as they go through each others' punishments.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> If you enjoy my writing, please check out my other stuff by browsing my blog over at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com!

Crowley would have expected that spending a night in bed with his angel - _HIS ANGEL!_ \- just holding each other and basking in newly-voiced declarations of love, would have been the greatest night of his long existence. And in truth, it had been, in many ways, quite wonderful. But the experienced was marred, somewhat, by waking up in the early morning sun and lazily opening his eyes to find his own face looking back at him.

"In any other situation at all," Crowley says in a very un-Crowley voice, "I'd be screaming my head off right now."

And Aziraphale chuckles, but it's a very un-Aziraphale face that crinkles with mirth that's drenched in nerves. "I was rather thinking something quite similar."

Crowley reaches out, strokes a soft finger down his own rigid face, and shudders a little. "I hope this works," he says in Aziraphale's voice, "Because I really don't want my own face to be the last friendly one I see."

Aziraphale takes the hand - his own hand - and gently presses Crowley's lips to it. "It'll work," he insists. "I have faith."

They'd come up with the plan the night before, spurred by a deep desire to protect one another and the promise of a long-dead prophetess that if they chose their faces 'wisely', they would be alright. It had been a tricky little mixture of miracle and curse that had taken a few tries to get exactly right (what had happened on the first try would, though he'd never admit it aloud, give Crowley nightmares for centuries to come), but in the end it had worked perfectly. And so now, Aziraphale-dressed-in-Crowley's-skin and Crowley-dressed-in-Aziraphale's-skin rose from Crowley's bed, straightened their respective clothes, reminded each other of little tics and foibles that might give them away, and prepared to face the retribution of both Heaven and Hell.

"Now, remember," Aziraphale-as-Crowley said as he poured them each a nice, hot tea to sooth their nerves, "If you're dealing with Gabriel, try not to talk back. Angels are disciplined and respectful, and even with my recent, er…rebellious nature, Gabriel will get suspicious if I'm a bit too…"

"Mouthy?" Crowley-as-Aziraphale grinned toothily. "Are you saying I can't keep my mouth shut, angel?"

The sly smirk that played over his own face was answer enough.

"I'll remember, I'll remember," Crowley-as-Aziraphale insisted, waving a hand and taking a sip of his tea. "As long as you remember to lay on my unfathomable wit and charm right to the last."

Aziraphale-as-Crowley rolled his eyes. "As truly brave and gallant as I'm sure you'd be in the face of the wrath of all of Hell, I don't think anyone would be _particularly_ suspicious if you whimpered just a little."

Crowley-as-Aziraphale nearly choked on his tea. "I-I do not whimper!" he sputtered, only to have the angel-in-devil's-clothes laugh (as kindly as possible, mind you) right in his face.

When the moment had passed and nervousness began to settle in again, Aziraphale-as-Crowley took a deep breath, gave his half-empty tea cup a little squeeze, and announced, "Right. We'd better set the stage. Best try to get this over with as soon as we can. Hopefully our respective Head Offices make their move soon so we can get past all this." He's confident, he's certain that this is going to work, but he's reasonably terrified all the same. Crowley knows the feeling.

They'd decided the night before that it would make sense for Aziraphale (ahem, Crowley) to return to the bookshop to assess the ruins. It wasn't a guarantee that Heaven would come there looking for him, but it was a reasonable prediction that they would be watching the site, given it was where they knew him to have previously spent most of his time. So, upon wishing each other luck and sharing a chaste kiss that was just a little too weird for Crowley ("T'hell would I want to taste my own lips for?"), he took Aziraphale's body out of the flat, down to the street, and hailed a cab.

He knew something had changed before they even reached the bookshop. He wasn't sure exactly how he knew, and whether it was his own instincts or a residual sense left behind on the angel's body, but the city seemed…new. Fresh. Clean, somehow.

Then the cab pulled up, and he stepped out of it with a calm, measured look on Aziraphale's face, while inside he whooped like a child on a particularly fruitful Christmas morn.

The bookshop was there, right where it had always been. That which he'd last seen engulfed in flames, wringing tortured screams of howling misery from his broken heart, was now whole and looking better than it ever had before. Crowley had been, justifiably, a bit wary about shifting through the ashes of the shop. Even now he knew that Aziraphale had been fine all along, the memory of screaming the angel's name throughout the raging inferno made his chest lock up in a way he could scarcely have described if you'd given him all the time in the world to find the words. But now… Now it was as if it had never even happened.

"Kid has style, I'll give him that," Crowley grins, thinking of the scruffy-haired Antichrist, who'd apparently set more to rights than just the Apocalypse.

He strolls into the shop leisurely, the little jingle of the doorbell making his heart leap, trying so hard to keep his face (Aziraphale's face) from breaking out into a grin to end all grins. It's all here. All the volumes and tomes, paperbacks and assorted publications, and of course, all the precious first editions (some of them which Crowley himself gifted the angel over the years, dutifully neglecting to mention how he'd managed to get his hands on them). At a second glance, Crowley notices a row of red on top of Aziraphale's ancient writing desk. A complete set of the Just William series by Richard Crompton.

"Those are new."_Cheeky kid._

_I can't wait to tell Aziraphale._

\---

_I can't wait to tell Crowley!_

Aziraphale tries very hard to keep a Crowley-esque scowl on his face, but he can hardly contain his happiness when he rounds the corner of the Mayfair flat and sees, lo and behold, The Bentley, looking good as new and certainly not in the least bit exploded.

_Adam really is such a sweet young man. Human incarnate, indeed._

He hails a cab, however. Certainly he could drive if he wanted to - and probably a great deal more safely than Crowley - but he's not certain that even long-overdue professions of undying love will save him from his demon's wrath should he find out he'd dared sully the dear Bentley's reputation in some way.

\---

A jaunty brass band is serenading passersby when Crowley-and-Aziraphale-as-Each-Other meet up at Saint James park at the time they'd agreed. It's a lovely day full of people going about their lives undeterred by Apocalyptic distractions, and shady characters are chatting on park benches about mass hallucinations and trade delegations that may or may not have been eaten by said hallucinations.

The angel and demon stroll up to an ice cream cart, trying their best to look calm and casual, though they each are personally experiencing a wide variety of emotions that range from concerned to panicked, with a bit of 'we're going to fucking die' on the side. Aziraphale-as-Crowley orders a strawberry lolly and a vanilla cone with a chocolate flake, the latter of which he hands to Crowley-as-Aziraphale.

They try to discuss the book shop and the Bentley with the excitement they feel for one another, but now they're back together and so very much out in the open like this, they're having a very difficult time retaining their respective senses of well-being.

"You heard from your people yet?" Crowley-as-Aziraphale asks, accepting the vanilla cone.

Aziraphale-as-Crowley shakes his head. "Yours?"

"Nothing."

"Do you understand what happened yesterday?" Aziraphale-as-Crowley asks then, out of genuine curiosity, because to be quite honest, some of it has had his head in knots.

Crowley-as-Aziraphale has to struggle to stop himself from making a very Crowley-ish face. "Well…I understand some of it. But some of it…well, it's just a little bit too, uh-"

"Ineffable…" says a dark-hooded figure holding a scythe who has just frightened the life out of a flock of birds.

Behind Crowley's dark glasses, Aziraphale-as-Crowley's eyes go wide at the sight of Death, who promptly poofs back out of existence. "Oh…that's, that's funny seeing him here. That's meant to be bad luck… That's…" He turned, only now noticing that his companion wasn't where he'd just been a second ago. "That's meant to be bad luck-"

The muffled shouts of alarm make him whirl in a circle. Crowley-as-Aziraphale looks back at him with eyes wide, mouth and hands bound, as he's dragged off by two figures in sparkling-clean painters overalls. Two more figures in the same uniform, but recognizable as Uriel and Sandalphon, step in to close the path with disturbing implications all over their angelic faces.

"Renegade angels all tied up with strings," says Uriel.

"These are a few of our favorite things," finishes Sandalphon. And then they turn to follow the kidnappers.

It was what they'd been expecting - in fact, what they were counting on - but Aziraphale-as-Crowley immediately has reservations that he can't hold back. Ironically, that makes his reaction in Crowley's body all the more of a convincing performance.

"Stop!" he shouts flinging away his lolly and giving chase. "Stop them!"

He doesn't notice the short-haired woman in the yellow slicker walking toward him with a crowbar in her hands. "What's wrong love?" she shouts right in his face and then a searing pain shoots through his shoulders and neck as he is beaten to the ground. "Oooh, bad luck dear…" the voice croons demonically.

Through the haze that is rapidly flowing in to steal away his consciousness, Aziraphale watches as the body containing the love of his life is hauled off into the distance. He drags himself one, maybe two shaky feet toward them before peering over his shoulders to find Hastur and Dagon grinning at him in twin yellow slickers. "It's no problem," he finds himself mumbling incoherently. "It's tickity-boo-" And then he sags to the ground.

\---

Crowley sits in a gleaming white room, Uriel and Sandlephon staring at him silently, trying to swallow back the taste of anxiety in his throat. It's been so, so long, and everything is so different now, but being back in Heaven - especially tied to a chair in the middle of a room as big as a football pitch - is extremely disquieting. There's a constant buzz in the air that's calling out to him - Love, Grace, Glorious Purpose, call it what you will, he knows that what it really is is Servitude - and it's making his teeth ache. What he really wants to do right now, if he's being entirely honest with himself (which he rarely is, to be fair), is run screaming from this place as fast as he can. Possibly light a few fires on the way out. But he knows that he won't, even if he is given the chance. He has to go through with this. He has to do it to protect-

"Ah! Aziraphale!"

The voice feels like a metal spike being railed through his brain.

_Gabriel…_

A sturdy, not-at-all-friendly hand grasps his (Aziraphale's) shoulder a little too tight and the Archangel dips his head down to grin at his captor. "So glad you could join us."

_Go time._

Crowley does his very best to sound as Aziraphale-ish as possible. "You could have just sent a message," he suggests. With as much seriousness as he can muster he adds, "I mean…the kidnapping, in broad daylight-"

"Call it what it was," Gabriel interrupts with a shit-eating grin, "An extraordinary rendition." A pitiless chuckle. He raises a hand to Uriel. "Now, have we heard from our new associate?"

Crowley's mental eyebrows knit together all the while he struggles to keep a steady look of calm determination on Aziraphale's face. _New associate?_

"He's on his way," Uriel says, and the news makes Gabriel grin. "He's on his way," he repeated.

Crowley-as-Aziraphale raises his eyebrows and purses his lips as Gabriel begins to wander the room, looking far too pleased with himself. "I think you're gonna like this," the Archangel croons with his hands pressed together as though in prayer, "I really do." He leans in a little too close, all teeth and smarm and self-righteousness. "And I bet you didn't see this one coming."

Crowley can't help it - he has a hard time keeping Aziraphale's eyebrows steady, and allows himself a thin, not-quite-polite smile.

_What I wouldn't give to rip your face off your skull right now._

\----

Aziraphale comes to with a sharp sting as he is slapped across the face. It takes a few moments (and a bit of profanity that he might not otherwise have used if he'd been aware of himself - luckily this only adds to the ruse currently in progress) for him to blink to full consciousness, but then the weight of the glasses on his face remind him of where he is (and, more importantly, who he is).

It is Hastur who has slapped him, and oh, was he looking rather pleased about something. "Wakey wakey," he growls in what passed for a positively ecstatic voice. "You're not going to want to miss this." And without further preamble, he nods to his compatriot, Dagon, and the two stride off down the long, grimy corridor.

Aziraphale-as-Crowley shakes his head to rid the last of the wobbliness that comes with having recently been unconscious, and notices that his hands have been bound. Two further demons wearing armor and carrying weapons glare at him, practically daring him to make a run for it.

"Do I have something on my face?" he asks, with as much of Crowley's snark as he can manage.

Neither demon responds.

Aziraphale takes a deep breath. _This is it. This is, as they say, for all the marbles._

As crackling, flickering lights buzz and pop all up and down the corridor, a small, rodent-like voice wafts toward them. "The trial of the demon Crowley, beginning with evidence and ending with utter obliviation, is now in session. All rise."

Behind the glasses, Aziraphale raises an eyebrow. How kind of them to get right to the point. So there would be no doubt that this was anything more than a show-trial.

A high, sharp, and yet somehow bored-sounding voice comes toward them, louder than the first. "Bring in the traitor!"

The guards simultaneously jab Aziraphale-as-Crowley in the back, shoving him forward. He wants to growl at them, but is too nervous at this point to really be bothered making the effort. Instead he marches forward, doing his best to move the way Crowley moves, even as he's forced by his bounds to hunch uncomfortably. He's herded into a dank room with three chairs - one higher up and behind the others - containing three demons: Dagon and Hastur sitting to the front while Beelzebub, Prince of Hell, lounges at the back. On the wall opposite them is a huge window behind which dozens of demons are watching with hungry, excited eyes, and just below the window is a large, rather dirty, porcelain bathtub.

Aziraphale-as-Crowley restrains himself from visibly gulping. _All the marbles._

"Hey guys," he says as casually as he can. "Nice place you got here."

"Not for you it won't be," Hastur retorts.

"Could do with a few house plants," Aziraphale presses on, scrunching up his (Crowley's) nose a bit. "Maybe a coffee table."

"Silence!" Beelzebub commands, as much so as anyone can sound commanding while also sounding so dreadfully bored. "The prisoner shall approach."

"Love to," Aziraphale-as-Crowley agrees, taking a few steps forward. He won't deny it: he's absolutely terrified at this point. Never in his wildest speculations would he have ever imagined himself standing trial before a room of demons, certainly not wearing the body of the person he loves most in the world. But he also knows that he has to pull this off. For his own sake, and for Crowley's. He has to make them believe the ruse. "So," he says, glancing in turn at the three demons in front of him, "Four of us. Rubber of bridge? Barbershop quartet?"

"The trial of a traitor?" Beelzebub cuts in, almost (almost) looking amused for a moment.

Aziraphale-as-Crowley squints. "Lord Beelzebub, you are-?"

The amusement is gone and replaced with incredulous annoyance. "I'm the judge." The _'obviously'_ is implied.

"And I'm the prosecutor," adds Hastur. He's taking his role very seriously, but the gleam of genuine joy in his black eyes is hard to miss.

Aziraphale raises his (Crowley's) eyebrows and looks to the third demon in the group, a bit of his own incredulity shining through at the sight of her. "And so Dagon here is defending me?"

Dagon doesn't seem to have a face that can really portray any kind of emotion. She simply looks…dangerous. "Oh I'm afraid not," she tells him through rows of pointed teeth. "No, I'm just here in case there's anything you've done that they've forgot."

Aziraphale-as-Crowley nods a bit. _Right. Of course._

"But we built this place for you specially," Beelzebub adds, leaning forward in an uncharacteristic show of interest. "It shall be your place of trial, and it shall be your place of destruction."

Again Aziraphale is struck by the unfairness of it. Not that he should ever expect demons to be fair, but really…why even bother with a trial at this point if they'd already planned out Crowley's execution? Why not just get on with it? "Guys," he says in Crowley's voice, working in a hint of snarky sarcasm, "You shouldn't have gone to all the trouble." And then, leaning into the role with the ghost of a smile on his lips: "What appears to be the trouble?"

Needing no further prompting, evidently having been waiting for this moment for millennia, Hastur dives into his prosecution with absolute gusto, beginning with the charge of "Fraternising with the enemy", which has Aziraphale struggling not to laugh allowed, even in his nerve-wracked state.

For the first while Aziraphale genuinely does pay attention to the proceedings of the trial, amused by the demon's descriptions of Crowley as having been 'tainted by Heaven' and tales of years spent wasted on 'minor inconveniences' to the human race instead of collecting souls for Hell. Eventually, though, as the charges go on and on, with Hastur bringing up practically every annoyance Crowley has caused him over the entire existence of Hell, Aziraphale begins to feel as bored as Beelzebub looks.

_Let's get on with it, shall we?_ he thinks once the third hour has come and gone. _You know what you're planning to do, so just do it already so I can get out of here and find out what's happening Upstairs._

"-and the murderer of a fellow demon, a crime which I saw with my own eyes-"

Hastur seems like he is going to expand upon that bit, but Beelzebub, hands on knees and looking extraordinarily impatient by this point seems to have finally decided that enough is enough. "Creatures of Hell!" the Prince drones bemusedly, "You have heard the evidence against the demon known as Crowley. What is your verdict?"

Aziraphale-as-Crowley turns to observe the demons on the other side of the window as they chant ravenously, "Guilty! Guilty! Guilty!"

_As if there was ever any doubt?_

"Do you have anything to say?" Beelzebub asks, "Before we take our vengeance on you?"

_Here we go then._

Aziraphale conjures images of Crowley, fixing the expression on his face to be a mixture of cold acceptance and natural concern for his own well-being. "What's it to be?" he asks, knowing damn well that the trial had begun with the words 'ending in utter obliviation'. "An eternity in the deepest pit?"

"Oh no," says Hastur, in what can only be described as a disgusting kind of purr, "We're going to do something even worse. Letting the punishment fit the crime."

Their attention is drawn then to the 'ting' of a bell, reconizable to anyone who has ever been in the presence of an elevator as the universal signal of one arriving. Steps approach, steady and even, and a moment later a figure in gleaming white, quite literally glowing against the backdrop of Hell, strides into the room carrying a large clear pitcher of water.

Aziraphale has to bite down on the gasp that's wanting to burst from him. Use of the word 'obliviation' not-withstanding, he's still surprised to find that his worst suspicions have been confirmed.

"The Archangel Michael?" he forces out in what he hopes is a Crowley-esque sound of surprise. "That's…unlikely."

"Cooperation with our old enemies," Dagon confirms with something like a grin. It makes a shiver go down Aziraphale's (Crowley's) spine.

"Well, wank-wings, you brought the stuff?" Hastur spits out.

For their part, Michael's eyes close for a moment in what appears to be a severe test of patience before opening them and saying simply, "I did." A gesture toward the glass pitcher. "I'll be back to collect it." They make as though to hand it off, but Hastur begins to sputter immediately.

"No, I think perhaps you ought to do the honors. It's," he takes a deep breath and a deep shudder seems to go through him. "I've seen what that stuff can do."

Michael pauses, and for a moment Aziraphale thinks that they may actually just decide to splash it across the entire room rather than continue this 'cooperation' business. But a beat later the Archangel's arms spread - eliciting a strange gasp from the watching demons - and they begin to pour the pitcher into the tub. Aziraphale watches with eyebrows knit, a look hinting at fear on Crowley's face that is more than just a little bit genuine.

_They're really going to do it_, he thinks. _Without even a farce of a chance to defend himself, their intention all along has been…_

"That's holy water," he says, hardly daring to believe that even demons could be so cruel to their own kind.

"The holiest, yes," Michael confirms as the pitcher - having held considerably more than what a vessel of its size could have logically held - finally drips dry.

Beelzebub speaks up with an annoyed kind of sneer. "Uh, it's not that we don't trust you, Michael, but, obviously we don't trust you." A nod toward Hastur. "Hastur, test it."

_Test it?_

Michael offers what-appears-to-be-the-demon-Crowley a strange, haughty smile before striding majestically back down the corridor, leaving the demons to their business. Hastur approaches a small, round, fat little demon whose voice Aziraphale recognizes as the one who announced the proceedings before he was brought in.

"Hey, what the hell do you think you're doing?" the little creature shouts as Hastur snatches it up by the tail. "Oh, ow!"

Aziraphale watches, genuinely aghast, as the Duke of Hell carries the little flailing demon to the bathtub filled with holy water amid cries of, "Ah, no! No no no no! What have I done?! No, no, please!"

"Wrong place, wrong time," Hastur growls, and then takes a large step back as he releases his grip.

Screams of pain and terror bubble up from the tub as the squealing demon disintegrates into nothingness. Destroyed in its entirety.

_Good lord..._

"Demon Crowley," Beelzebub announces, drawing Aziraphale-as-Crowley's attention back away from the tub, "I sentence you to extinction by holy water. Have you anything to say?"

_What would Crowley say?_

"Well, yes," Aziraphale-as-Crowley says slowly, after a moment's thought. "Um…this is a new jacket, and I'd really hate to ruin it. D'you mind if I take it off?"

\---

They've been waiting for some time and Crowley's (Aziraphale's) wrists are starting to itch. He keeps clenching and un-clenching his fists, itching to break free and beat Gabriel's stupid, smug face until it's nothing but a red paste on Heaven's floor. But instead he breathes slowly, in and out, in and out, knowing that he has to make this work. He has to play his part if he's going to protect the angel from whatever his fate is to be.

But while he's waiting, at least he can fantasize about bloody pools of archangel pulp.

Then, suddenly, Gabriel's gaze flickers to the back of the room and a different kind of grin plays across his face.

"Don't get this view down in the basement," a voice comes from behind.

Crowley has to struggle to keep the shock from Aziraphale's face as a lesser demon comes striding confidently into view carrying an obsidian black pot.

_They couldn't…the wouldn't!_

But they would. The demon approaches a circle of stones that had been lain on the floor at the center of the room and throws the contents of the pot toward it. In what seems like an instant a brilliant pillar of fire, raging like a barely-contained tornado, burns through the air from floor to ceiling as the three angels in the room take several steps back to keep themselves away from the danger.

_Hellfire... I can't believe these bastards are going to use hellfire!_ Internally he's growling, angrier than he's ever been in his existance. To use hellfire on his angel, the only angel out of Heaven who's even worth a damn.

The lesser demon takes his leave, and Gabriel steps back toward Crowley-as-Aziraphale with that extremely-punchable face full of righteousness. "So," he says, "With one act of treason you averted the war."

_I'll fucking kill you. I'll pluck out those purple fucking eyes and eat them and enjoy every second of it._

It takes an extreme act of effort to keep his (Aziraphale's) face steady and begin, "Well, I think the Greater Good-"

"Don't talk to me about the greater good, sunshine, I'm the Archangel-fucking-Gabriel."

_Not even gonna go there, dickweed_.

"The greater good was we were finally going to settle things with the opposition!" Gabriel expounds. "Once and for all!"

He's so sure of himself, so certain that he, above all, is correct in this, that Crowley struggles to keep his reaction to but a simple twitch of the lips.

Uriel approaches then, and with a tiny gesture removes the binds holding Crowley-as-Aziraphale to the chair. "Up," comes the command before she walks away.

Crowley-as-Aziraphale stretches out his arms, shakes out his wrists, and stands as prim and proper as he can, head held high. His hands (Aziraphale's hands) flit up to adjust his lapels, his bow-tie, as he searches for the right words, the words he thinks Aziraphale would use. "I don't suppose I could persuade you to reconsider?" he asks with a bit of a nervous smile. When none of the angels respond he throws in, "We're meant to be the good guys, for Heaven's sake."

Gabriel all but scoffs. "Well, for 'Heaven's sake', we are meant to make examples out of traitors. So," He raises a hand. "Into the flame."

_And you expect him to just march into his own death? You fucking bastards, if I didn't have to do this for him I would be pulling your entrails through your throats right now…_

But instead he purses his lips and walks slowly toward the burning pillar. "Right," he says, taking one last look at the subjects of Aziraphale's demise. "Well. Lovely knowing you all." He has to pause to swallow, because he can feel angry bile trying to make its way up his throat. "May we meet on a better occasion."

Gabriel's face is that of a child burning ants with a magnifying glass. "Shut your stupid mouth, and die already," precedes an absolutely petulant grin.

It takes every ounce of willpower Crowley has ever possessed to screw Aziraphale's mouth shut and twitch out a tiny, humorless smile before sucking the tongue back in his throat to keep from screaming. And then, without bothering to draw it out any further, he steps into the flames.

All three executioners twitch a little. Seconds pass. There's a small, strangled noise from one of the angels.

Internally, Crowley is grinning like a maniac. Externally Aziraphale's body is standing at the center of the pillar of hellfire, blissfully unaffected by its angel-destroying power. Crowley-as-Aziraphale let's out a pleased sigh as the heat licks up around him, practically caressing him. He leans his head to either side, cracking his neck and sighing again as though it's all a terribly comfortable full-body massage.

He finally opens his (Aziraphale's) eyes to see that the three angels are staring at him, confusion plastered over their faces. And maybe a little bit of…fear?

Crowley-as-Aziraphale grins. He knows he shouldn't, but he can't help himself. _Just a little fright couldn't hurt…_ And he opens up and snarls, breathing a burst of the hellfire straight out at the three angels, who all stumble back in alarm and definite panic.

"It-" Gabriel stutters looking very much like he wants to make a run for it (which, oh, is so perfect), "It may be worse than we thought."

Crowley-as-Aziraphale grins maniacally. "Sorry," he speaks from the pillar, reeling at the way the angels jump when little flames lick out at them from his words, "Is something meant to be happening?"

Uriel and Sandelphon keep looking to Gabriel for guidance, for an explanation, for…for something, but his purple eyes are fixed on the abomination before him.

"What is he?" Uriel asks, visibly shaken. Gabriel grasps at straws, but makes nothing more than strange faces and noncommittal noises. Crowley can see that the Archangel is pushing his panic deep down, trying not to crack and let the others know how shaken he is by this new development. He may even be…scared.

Crowley seizes on that, mentally caresses it, urges it to grow. He focuses on fixing Aziraphale's face into something that is both very much the angel but also just that little bit threatening. He steps forward, going through the flames and stepping out toward the angels. He's pleased when all three take another few steps back, especially pleased at the way Gabriel's eyes widen further.

"I think," he says, firmly but also with a hint of Aziraphale's sugary sweetness, "I'll be returning to Earth now."

There's a beat during which the three angels just stare, and then finally Gabriel nods, just once.

Crowley-as-Aziraphale begins to turn, hesitates, looks back at them and allows himself another sly smile that has a threat infused deep within it. "And I rather think I'd like to be left alone, hmm?"

Another beat. Another nod. This time Uriel and Sandelphon join in with the affirmation.

Crowley-as-Aziraphale turns, and as the angels watch what they think is a hellfire-proof Principality walking away from Heaven, he grins like a particularly devilish child.

\---

The jacket comes off first, placed safely against the arm of Hastur's chair. _Don't you dare touch it you disgusting thing,_ Aziraphale thinks, glaring at the Duke of Hell. Then, as a second thought, he decides to draw the thing out, much as he suspected Crowley might have in the same position. He slips the shirt and tie up over his head and tosses them on top of the jacket. Next come the trousers, the shoes kicked off, and then the glasses, laid rather more delicately on the top of the pile. He's standing in snug black shorts, an undershirt, and a pair of black socks when Beelzebub has finally decided they've waited long enough.

"In the tub!" the Prince shouts, and the attending demons growl their agreement.

Crowley-as-Aziraphale raises his hands in an 'excuse me' gesture. "Just trying to save us much as possible," he suggests, but he strolls toward the tub anyway, cocking a thumb back at the pile of discarded clothes as he does. "Hold on to those, they might be worth something on Ebay once I'm gone."

That may have been a bit much, Aziraphale thinks when he sees the blank faces on most of the demons.

He examines the tub, wondering how to go about this for the best effect. Finally he settles for sitting on the end of the porcelain, his back to the water. The attending demons draw in a unified breath.

"Well," says Aziraphale-as-Crowley, snake eyes roaming the room, "This is it, I suppose. I'd say it's been a pleasure, but, I mean, obviously not." A half-cracked smile as Beelzebub's eyes roll in annoyance. "So long then. Try not to miss me too much." And then, as ceremoniously as he can, Aziraphale-as-Crowley leans back and let's himself sink down into the water.

The unified breath comes out of the demons all at once…and then just as quickly turns into a scrambled mess of gasps and choked sounds of surprise.

Aziraphale-as-Crowley lets his arms and legs spill out over the edges of the tub as his body is enveloped in the delicately warm, soothing glow of the holy water. He smiles. He squirms a little to get more comfortable. Then he reaches his fingers into the tub and flicks a few playful splashes out at the watching window. The reaction - a wave of gasps and a few full-out screams - is positively delicious, so he reaches both hands in, playing with the water, and throws a whole handful so that it splatters all across the window. More screams this time, and though the demons are rapt in the shock of what they're seeing, several of them are now stepping back from the window as though terrified the holy water will burn right through it.

_That's right,_ Aziraphale thinks, gaining more and more confidence as the ruse goes on. _Be terrified. Be terrified of my Crowley._

"I don't suppose," he says in a calm, casual kind of way as he strokes his fingers through the water, "that anywhere in the nine circles of hell there's such a thing as a rubber duck?" He lifts his head to direct the question at his judge, and grins internally at the way the three demons there are staring in horror, having crowded back together at Beelzebub's throne. "No?" He shrugs and returns to the game of flicking water at the watching window.

"He's gone native," Beelzebub breathes in horrified awe. "He isn't one of us anymore."

Aziraphale-as-Crowley turns to that, propping himself up a bit so that he's looking directly at the Prince of Hell. "So, you're probably thinking," he begins, "If he can do this, I wonder what else he can do?" He lets himself smile a little, knowing how much Crowley would be would be shining in this moment if he were able to do it himself. The smile is more than a little bit of a dare. "And very, very soon, you're all going to get the chance to find out."

They're all terribly shaken, there's no doubt of that, but Hastur somehow manages to find a moment of bold confidence. "He's bluffing," he growls. "We can take him. One demon against the rest of Hell?" He sneers. "What's he going to do?"

Aziraphale-as-Crowley chooses that moment to flick more water back at the watching window and grins at the way the demons there scream.

"Shut it!" Beelzebub snarls at Hastur. "Get him out of here, he'll cause a riot!" The Prince steps forward, standing regal and imposing, as though hoping to make the demons there magically forget what has transpired right in front of them. "What are you all looking at?! Nothing to see! Nothing to see here!"

Aziraphale doesn't think this could be going any better, truly, but then he hears the little elevator ding and steps approaching, and he feels a devilish grin that is all his play across Crowley's face.

"I'm here to bring back the- Oh Lord!"

Aziraphale-as-Crowley turns and savours the look of absolute shock and dismay on the Archangel's face. "Michael, dude!" he calls back with what he thinks is just the right amount of cheek, "Do us a quick miracle, will you? I need a bath towel."

Such is the extent of the shock - and possibly even a little bit of fear! - that Michael immediately complies, approaching only close enough to place the fluffy towel within reach of the outstretched arm before stepping back again.

Aziraphale-as-Crowley leans up in the tub, unfurling the towel and conjuring every ounce of cool, calm confidence he's ever seen on his demon's visage.

_Parting time. Make it a good one._

"I think it would be better for everyone," he says with eyes set menacingly on Beelzebub's disturbed face, "if I were to be left alone in the future. Don't you?"

The Prince of Hell visibly gulps, and offers a shaky, jerky nod.

Aziraphale-as-Crowley grins. "Right."

He hops out of the tub (to another chorus of gasps from behind the window), and rather than actually drying off decides to drape the towel casually over his shoulders before swaggering toward his discarded clothes. Holy water drips everywhere he moves, causing Hastur, Dagon, and Beelzebub to go scurrying over to the far corner of the room to be as far away from him as possible. With teeth showing in a permanent grin that's bordering on insanity at this point, Aziraphale-as-Crowley gathers the clothes in one hand and stalks off down the corridor, past the terrified demons, past the aghast figure of the Archangel Michael, and away from the murmurs and shouts and screams of the gathered masses.

_Well. That was positively sinful_, he thinks with a grin that is all his own.

\---

They'd previously agreed on a meeting spot for After, assuming that After meant they would have the opportunity to return to one another. Crowley-as-Aziraphale arrives first, sprawling himself across the bench in Saint James park with a sigh, allowing himself to melt into the sprawl in a very un-Aziraphale way.

He'd done it. There was no doubting the look Gabriel had given him before he'd left. The ruse had gone off without a hitch.

At least, his half of it had.

He rests against the bench and waits patiently for his angel to appear to confirm a completely successful execution of their plan. And then he waits a little less patiently. And then he waits resolutely without any patience at all, shaking one leg nervously.

_Where the Heaven is he?_ he begins to fret, worrying at his (Aziraphale's) bottom lip. _Go-…Sa-…FUCK. I hope nothing went wrong. Please, don't let anything have gone wrong, I'll never forgive myself and I-_

His heart swells with relief as his own body finally comes jostling around the corner toward him, looking far too pleased with himself.

The angel-as-a-devil joins the devil-as-an-angel on their bench, sitting far too primly. "It's done?" he asks.

"It's done."

And they share a look of such shining relief that it almost knocks the wind out of both of them.

"I was getting worried," Crowley-as-Aziraphale admits. "What took so long? And what was it then?"

"Oh, Lord, the 'trial' was a joke," Aziraphale-as-Crowley snorts in a very un-angelic way. "Hastur, it seems, has been lining up charges against you since the literal beginning of time." He rolls his (Crowley's) eyes, and then gnaws on his lip a bit before answering the second question. "It was the worst of your theories," he finally says, "Holy water."

Crowley-as-Aziraphale cringes, but he can't say he's surprised. There were any number of tortures Hell could have inflicted upon him for his treachery, but all of those tortures would have left him with a chance, an opportunity to someday be free again. This way they would be rid of him permanently and never have to waste a passing thought on him ever again.

_That's fine. I don't plan on wasting any on them either._

"What about you?" Aziraphale-as-Crowley asks quietly. He's a little shaky, thinking about Crowley being in Heaven in his place, surrounded by such danger the entire time. "What was my, er…punishment?"

For a long moment Crowley considers lying to save his angel the heartbreak of knowing what his fellow angels had had in store for him. But Crowley has never lied - not truly - to Aziraphale and he isn't going to start now, not after all they've been through. "Hellfire," he says as gently as he can. "They forced you to step into hellfire."

Aziraphale's (Crowley's) face visibly pales, but he presses his lips together and nods once. "Yes, well… It's hard to imagine, of course, but I didn't… I didn't really think they would go easy on me after being so insistent on having their war." With that he averts his eyes to the delicate pink line of sky on the horizon that was promising a beautiful sunset.

Crowley watches and sighs, knowing that now wasn't the moment, but knowing all the same that he was going to kiss every tiny flicker of pain and self-doubt from his angel at the first opportunity. As a temporary compromise he asks, "Do you think they'll leave us alone now?"

"At a guess," Aziraphale-as-Crowley hums, "They'll pretend it never happened."

"Hmm," Crowley-as-Aziraphale agrees. The whole situation must have been a massive embarrassment on either side, not to mention all that lovely, glorious fear that had been sparkling in Gabriel's eyes. Crowley would hold that pleasantry in his heart for the rest of his existence.

"Right," Aziraphale says, "Anyone looking?"

Crowley concentrates on that, looking Outward while Aziraphale glances around their immediate vicinity. "Nobody," he decides after a moment. Then he offers a hand. "Right. Swap back then."

Their outstretched hands meet and the illusion begins to melt and mold around them, their bodies and essences returning to their rightful places, and where there was, a moment ago, a demon and an angel, there is now an angel and a demon.

Crowley visibly shudders and sighs as his own familiar corporation is returned to him at last, stretching out the hand as Aziraphale releases it. Oh, that feels so much better. "A tartan collar? Really?" he shoots at his angel.

"What? Tartan is stylish," Aziraphale responds in disbelief. He looks so put upon that Crowley nearly laughs, but instead he knits his eyebrows together and looks away, keeping his mirth on the inside.

Aziraphale sputters a bit as if he knows exactly what's going on in Crowley's head. He tries to save his dignity by changing the subject. "So, Agnus Nutter's last prophecy was on the money." He let's a playful grin spread across his face and looks at Crowley out of the corner of his eye. "I asked for a rubber duck." The demon's head swings to him, eyebrows raised. Aziraphale can almost hear the, "You what?" and decides to go for the kill. He can barely contain the glee in his voice as he adds, "And made the Archangel Michael miracle me a towel!"

The laugh that rumbles up out of Crowley is a joy to hear and gets Aziraphale giggling in turn. After what the angels had planned to do to Aziraphale, Crowley truly wishes he could have seen that.

When their laughter dies away Crowley lets out a little sigh. "They'll leave us alone. For a bit. If you ask me," he says, turning to look at his angel, "both sides are going to use this as breathing space. "Before the big one."

Aziraphale looks absolutely aghast at the idea "I thought that _was_ the big one," he argues.

Crowley wishes he could indulge this fantasy of his angel's, but he's certain of this. He can feel it deep in the essence of his being. "No," he sighs. "For my money the _really_ big one is all of us against all of them."

That makes Aziraphale pause, and Crowley can see the wheels turning in his head. "What?" the angel practically whispers, "Heaven and Hell…against…humanity?" It's a horrible thought, but somehow, as soon as it leaves his lips, he feels that Crowley has the truth of it.

"Right," the demon agrees, though it's not as if he looks happy about it himself. "Time to leave the garden."

They sit in silence for a few moments, each considering the implications, wondering how long they have, wondering how much they can cram into that time to make up for everything they've missed out on. They've done a great deal in their 6000 years on Earth, sometimes together, oftentimes not, but there is so much more to do and see, and the key is that now they're free to do and see them all _together_.

With that thought Crowley smiles and his eyes shine behind his glasses. _So much lost time to make up for,_ he thinks. _And I know just where to start._

"Let me tempt you to a spot of lunch?" the demon purrs at the angel. The words are barely out of his mouth before a truly, genuinely happy smile curls up on the angel's face and he responds with a bit of a goofy, "Temptation accomplished."

They head off toward the Ritz, where a table has just miraculously opened up, and the world is calm, and the atmosphere is pleasant. And for the first time in what feels like a long time, an angel and a devil relax and enjoy themselves, and revel in the things that make them each special and different. After all, none of this would have worked out if Crowley weren't, at heart, just a little bit a good person, and if Aziraphale weren't, deep down, just enough of a bastard to be worth knowing. An ineffable thing that, but perfect and proper all the same. And as they tip their glasses and toast "To the World", they know that what they're really saying is "I love you" and "I'm so happy that we've made it through this" and "This is it. The first day of the rest of our lives...together."

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's that bit! One more chapter to go, and that one is going to be the steamy one. So if you're not a fan of the sexy bits, go ahead and end right here, right now, and I thank you for reading this far. ^_^
> 
> If you enjoy my writing, please check out my other stuff by browsing my blog over at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com!


	3. The First Night of the Rest of Their Lives

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> After dinner at the Ritz the Ineffable pair stroll back to the bookshop and a rather romantically-worded confession from Crowley strikes the match that sets Aziraphale burning.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is the big one, so WARNING WARNING WARNING! If you read the first two chapters and enjoyed the cutesiness and angst and fluff and you are NOT a fan of smut, turn back now! ABORT! ABORT!
> 
> If, however, you are all about these two getting down and dirty, please do continue. ^_~
> 
> Though I've written sex scenes and the like before, this is my first time writing smutty fanfiction, so please let me know how I did! I'm pretty pleased with the way it turned out, myself. :)
> 
> Enjoy!
> 
> If you enjoy my writing, please check out my other stuff by browsing my blog over at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com!

Crowley feels calm and relaxed and happy for the first time in…honestly? Longer than he can remember. Has he even _ever_ been this happy? The past 6000 years haven't exactly always been a laugh riot. The last 11 years in particular have been a constant nagging tick of stress burrowing into his brain at all times, threatening to discorporate him. And the last 48 hours? Well, there have been some good bits, sure, but he had to walk through the greatest burning misery he could have imagined in order to get to this point.

He'd thought his angel - _his_ angel - was gone. _Forever_ gone. The kind of gone that can never be taken back. And he'd wanted to go too, because the world just wasn't worth anything without Aziraphale in it. _Existence_ wasn't worth anything without Aziraphale in it. Crowley had been ready, willing, and capable of just sitting back and letting the world burn with his pathetic, worthless form curled up at the center of the flame. No pain - no writhing, torturous death - could have been worse than thinking he'd never again see the only person he ever truly loved with every atom of his being.

But then, miraculously, the angel had returned, piecing together the shattered remains of Crowley's soul. Together, alongside young Adam, they'd somehow managed to stop the Apocalypse. And together, just the two of them (with a little help from a long-dead prophetess), they'd outsmarted both Heaven and Hell into leaving them be and running away with their tails between their legs. They were both free. Free of their respective "sides", free to be _together_ and do as they wished with the rest of their lives.

And now, _now_… Now Crowley sits at a table at the Ritz, eating immaculately-prepared food and listening to hauntingly beautiful music, and gazing longingly at his angel - HIS angel! - giddy in the knowledge that Aziraphale loves him too. Nothing could be more perfect, he believes. Somehow, against all the odds and everything he's ever allowed himself to dream, he's become the luckiest demon to ever exist. Possibly the luckiest _anyone_ to ever exist.

"Well," says Aziraphale, delicately dabbing a napkin to his lips, "That was everything I could have hoped for." His smile is radiant, shining more beautifully than any star (or combination of stars) in the night sky. "A perfectly suitable celebration dinner, wouldn't you say?"

"Mmm…" Crowley agrees, his focus on the sparkle of happiness in Aziraphale's blue eyes. He doesn't need words. Let the angel have all the words in the world. The demon was more than happy enough with the sights.

Aziraphale waves down the waiter as he continues. "Shall we head back to mine for a few more drinks? I must admit, I'm a bit antsy to see the shop after believing it to have been thoroughly destroyed."

Crowley can't help the wide smile that spreads on his face at that. There's nothing he wants more than to see his angel happy and be able to drink in the heavenly light that is his smile. "Sounds good, Angel. You're gonna be pleased, I'm sure. The kid did good, setting it back to rights."

Aziraphale is positively beaming with that thought. "He really is _such_ a sweet boy," he sighs. "No thanks to us," he adds with a chuckle. He signs the bill without looking at the price, automatically adding in an exorbitant tip. "Would you like to catch a taxi over to your flat first to pick up the Bentley? I'm sure you've been dying to see it after that horrible display at the airbase."

In truth, it would have been lovely to set eyes on the Bentley again. Watching it explode had had quite an effect on him, wrenching his innards into painful knots, being that it was one of very few things he _truly_ cared about. But…

"Nah, I'll see it later," he insists. "Let's walk to the shop."

Aziraphale fails to hide the surprise on his face. It's not to say that they never walk anywhere - on the contrary, think of how many miles they've put on through Saint James park alone - but it's more than a little shocking to hear Crowley choose a casual stroll in the twilight over reuniting with his precious vintage car. The angel is not, however, about to complain.

On the way out Crowley slips a couple of bills to a bartender and they walk out into the crisp late-evening air carrying a bottle each of the house wine and giggling like teenagers about it. They've already had plenty to drink at the restaurant, but it's a celebration, and Crowley plans on drinking much, much more. Quite extraordinary amounts of alcohol, in fact. "To us!" he toasts as he pops the cork on his bottle, and Aziraphale responds in kind with lovely, bell-like laughter, "To us!" They each take a mouthful and grin at each other like the fools they know they are.

As they finally set out in the direction of the shop, Crowley considers the dark blue sky that is rapidly fading to black, a few bright stars working to make themselves known even through the light pollution of the city around them. He spies two stars in particular, nuzzled rather close together in the fabric of the sky, and he's struck by a sudden need, something he has to do right this second.

"Angel, hold up a sec."

Aziraphale stops and turns, blinking. "Yes dear?"

Crowley approaches with a grin, sets his bottle on the ground at their feet, and reaches up to take the angel's face in both his hands. "Just in case you'd forgotten since yesterday," he begins, pauses, leans in to brush their lips together in a feather-soft kiss, then leans back to smile again. "I bloody love you."

Aziraphale nearly melts. He wraps himself around the demon, wine bottle and all, and pulls him in for another kiss, a deeper one this time, full of warmth and truth and saturated with his fondness for the other. "I'll never forget," he whispers, "because I bloody love you too."

\---

They're halfway to the bookshop when Crowley asks the question, prompted by warm, fuzzy feelings that are part being in love, part surviving certain death twice in as many days, and several parts the kind of openness that only alcohol can prompt.

"I feel like I'm just looking for trouble by asking this, but…how long?"

Aziraphale is in mid-gulp from his bottle and holds up a finger while he finishes. Crowley thinks that this angel must be the only being in the Universe who could manage to look dignified and refined while guzzling wine straight from the bottle in the middle of a London street at sunset.

"How long what, my dear?"

Crowley considers taking it back, but takes a swig from his own bottle and presses forward. "How long since you decided that you love me?"

Aziraphale clucks at that, which makes Crowley frown, but then the angel holds up a hand and waves it as if to say the demon is being foolish. "First off, my dear boy, I never _decided_ that I love you." He says it as if it's the most ridiculous thing he's ever heard, which may very well be true. "There is no decision-making when it comes to love, Crowley. It just _is_. And if I'm being honest…" He looks up at the smattering of stars in the sky and smiles. "…I knew there was something…_different_ about you right from the beginning, though I never would have been able to admit it to myself back then." A brief moment of contemplation while he takes another gulp of wine. "But if there was a moment when I can say for certain that something began to really _click_ deep down, it had to have been during the Ark."

Crowley is in mid-gulp and chokes a little, his face turning bright red. "O-oh?" he sputters, trying (and failing) to be nonchalant. "W-why's that?"

Aziraphale shoots him one of those winning angelic smiles, his cheeks very pink from the wine. "Oh, there's no point trying to hide it, you silly snake," he scoffs playfully. "I _saw_ you."

Crowley stubbornly sets his jaw and stars up at the sky as he walks. "Dunno what you're talkin' about, angel."

Suddenly there's a hand in Crowley's, fingers winding together, and he's forced to look down and face Aziraphale's warm, loving (if a bit intoxicated) gaze. "I _saw_ you," he repeats. "Did you think you went unnoticed down in the bowels of the ark, snuggled up with those children you saved?" He lifts a hand to caress Crowley's flushed cheek. "I didn't have the courage back then to defy Her plan, but I _hated_ it. I hated it _so much_. And then I found you, down there with the children, wrapped up in blankets, surrounded by baskets of food you'd stolen from the stores... It was the most beautiful and wonderful thing I'd ever seen. That's when I knew for sure that there was so much more to you than archaic notions of Good and Evil. That's when I absolutely fell in love with you and knew I'd never be able to be truly happy without you."

His eyes are shining so bright it nearly blinds Crowley, even with his sunglasses. After a long, lightning-charged moment the demon manages to clear his throat, shift his body, and urge the angel to keep walking with him. "Yes, well," he stutters out, "You just keep that to yourself, right? I've still got a reputation to maintain."

Aziraphale fails to hold back a giggle. "Yes, of course dear." Then, a moment later: "What about you? When did you first know?"

Crowley smiles into the neck of his bottle as he takes another gulp. "The wall," he says, simply.

Aziraphale's eyebrows knit together. "The…the _Berlin_ Wall?" he guesses. "Dear, that's a rather odd-"

But Crowley is shaking his head and laughing. "No, you silly angel," he chuckles. "The _Garden_ wall."

Aziraphale is struck speechless. He stops walking, and the hand holding his wine drops to his side. "You-" he starts, stops, starts again. "That couldn't- We'd only just- _How could you have possibly known then_?"

Crowley is smiling serenely now, gazing up at the dark sky and remembering. "Don't get me wrong," he says, "I fought myself for, oh…the first couple of millennia. But it was there right from the beginning…from the moment you told me you'd given your flaming sword to the humans. It shocked me through to my core, because even though I could easily see that you were full of Her light and love and devotion, you'd also done something incredibly foolish, on impulse, knowing it wasn't necessarily part of The Plan, all because you wanted to protect them, the humans. You chose the fledgling, delicate life you saw in front of you over blind faith. And in that moment I _knew_… I knew that you were the only angel in Heaven worth a damn, and I knew that I was irrevocably head-over-heels in love with you, and always would be."

Crowley has just arrived outside the bookshop as he finishes his speech, and turns to find Aziraphale still standing on the other side of the street, staring at him in a way he can't interpret. For a moment his heart flutters, wondering if he said something wrong and upset the angel. "You okay?" he calls back, tentative.

The question seems to break the spell because suddenly Aziraphale is marching across the street (miraculously being missed by several cars who honk their horns and shout profanity at him) with a frightening intensity on his face that actually makes Crowley take a step back. In that moment, the demon's heart is in his throat, wondering what he's said wrong, what he's done wrong, and how he can take whatever-it-was back. "What's wrong Azira-"

Crowley doesn't get a chance to finish his sentence. A few steps away from the demon Aziraphale deftly deposits his wine bottle on the walk outside the shop, and in the next heartbeat he's shoved Crowley up against the bookshop's door, his lips pressed to the demon's in a mad, desperate tidal wave of passion. Crowley's bottle falls to the walk and shatters.

They'd kissed before, very recently in fact. They'd made their loving confessions and held each other and tasted each other... It had been wonderful and heady and it had filled Crowley's black heart to the brim with happiness. This is different. This kiss isn't just love. It's _desire_. It's _want._ It's _need_. It's frantic and frenzied and wild. Aziraphale's hands are on Crowley's face, neck, shoulders, waist, hips, anything and everything he can reach. He's pressing their bodies together so that there isn't even a breath of space between them, and Crowley can feel his heart stuttering in shock as he gropes for the door handle to get them inside.

They tumble into the shop to the cheerful jingle of the doorbell and Aziraphale kicks the door shut behind him, locks it and drops the window shades with a flick of his wrist. He's refusing to release his grip on Crowley's lips and jacket, all the while pushing them both forward through the mess of books. Crowley, trying desperately to regain his startled wits, stumbles backward and his back strikes one of the shelves, sending tomes of all types plummeting to the floor. He mumbles a sound of apology and makes a move as if to retrieve what's fallen, but Aziraphale fists his hands in the demon's shirt and hair and pulls him back, refusing to relinquish the kiss.

It's all Crowley's ever wanted, to be quiet honest. To be the object of the angel's affections, the object of his desires… But he has to check, has to _know._ With more restraint and willpower than he ever could have guessed he possessed, he grabs Aziraphale by the shoulders and forces him back far enough to be able to breath and think and speak. "Are you sure this is what you want, angel?" he asks, going for a gentle, loving tone, but coming out breathless with yearning. "Because I know what I want…I know what I've wanted for millennia. But I'm happy with whatever you want. I'm happy just to be with you. We don't have to- We don't have to go…too fast."

Something in Aziraphale's eyes shimmers. Crowley can't tell if it's the threat of tears or just a trick of the light, but a heartbeat later it's gone and the angel is smiling in a way Crowley can't ever remember seeing him smile even once in 6000 years. It's love, and it's fondness, and it's companionship, but it's also lust - untethered, undeniable lust - and the realization nearly makes Crowley discorporate on the spot.

Aziraphale reaches up, slowly, gently, and removes Crowley's glasses so that he's looking into the demon's beautiful amber snake eyes. He spares the glasses half a glance and then unceremoniously tosses them so that they land somewhere in the vague vicinity of the front desk. "I'm sick of slow," he states, and in the next second he's at Crowley's throat, peppering insistent, desperate kisses along his neck and jaw and collarbone and kneading his fingers into every inch of the demon's body.

Crowley can't stop the moan that falls from his lips, and that only seems to spur Aziraphale on. The angel wraps his fingers around the demon's loose, scarf-like tie and pulls, leading him through the bookshop without allowing the kissing and touching to stop for even a second. They hit another shelf and ignore the books that go tumbling to the floor. They bump a small table and its lamp tips and crashes down, unnoticed. They manage to find the couch where Crowley has lounged and drank with his angel so many times since the bookshop first came into their lives, and Aziraphale presses his demon up against the back of it, hitching their lower bodies together with the motion. This time they both moan, because they can feel the proof of the effect they're having on each other, pressing desperately out from beneath their trousers.

"Oh g- Oh, Angel," Crowley keens. His head is swirling, his voice pleading. But he's also beginning to panic just a bit. "I never… I mean I haven't…" He can't get the thought out because Aziraphale has pushed off both of their jackets, thrown them on the couch, and has been frantically nipping his teeth against the demon's throat.

Aziraphale, however, does manage to translate. "Neither have I," he gasps out between kisses. "We'll figure it out together." With that promise he presses a thigh up between Crowley's legs and shudders with desire at the way his demon whimpers pleasantly. "It'll be perfect no matter how it goes," Aziraphale purrs against Crowley's sensitive throat. "As long as it's you."

Crowley is a whimpering mass of jelly in the angel's arms, and he can't take it anymore. In a single fluid motion he grabs Aziraphale by the waist and spins them both around gracefully, and suddenly the angel is the one being pressed up against the back of the couch. Crowley presses a wet, passionate kiss to the angel's lips while he fumbles with the buttons on the his waistcoat. He feels Aziraphale move and spies a raised hand, fingers ready to snap, but Crowley reaches up and stops the motion, sliding their fingers together to move Aziraphale's hand down. "Don't," he whispers against his angel's lips. "I want to unwrap you like a gift."

The words make every inch of Aziraphale's body tremble.

It's tantalising, Crowley thinks, getting to undress Aziraphale like this. And it's a kind of irony that he's sure isn't lost on the angel, because the demon is moving slower than he's ever moved in his life. Bit by bit, button by agonising button, he takes all the time in the world to slowly strip his angel down. He gives the little tartan bow-tie a playful tug, then reaches forward and snatches it away from the angel's throat with his teeth before flinging it to the floor with a grin on his face.

He slides the waistcoat down to Aziraphale's shoulders, momentarily trapping the angel's arms, and in that moment Crowley darts forward like he's on the attack, serpent tongue flicking out to lick a long, moist line from the angel's collar, up along his jawline and ending at the sensitive bit of skin just below the ear. The demon feels his angel squirm beneath him, hears the little keening noise that escapes his throat, and it feels like he could burst just from the reactions Aziraphale has to his touch.

_More, more, need more…_

Crowley wraps an arm around his angel, pulling him forward slightly to let the waistcoat drop to the floor. The action presses their straining erections together and pulls a lovely little gasp from each of their lips.

"Darling, at this rate I won't last long enough for you to finish 'unwrapping' me," Aziraphale breathes as he takes control again, frantically ripping Crowley's shirt up over his head to toss it across the room. He's struck by the sight of the demon's bare chest, so sharp and lean and angular. He can't stop himself from leaning forward and laying a kiss on the spot over his heart before trailing his tongue over to one perfect pink nipple. The sound that comes out of Crowley is one that no respectable demon would _ever_ admit to having made.

"_Ung_…Angel," he moans, his fingers scrambling for the final gate of buttons that keeps him away from his lover's beautiful skin. "If it ends too soon, we'll try again. And again, and again, and-" He let's out a sharp hiss as Aziraphale's teeth close around the nipple. The hiss is followed immediately by a shudder that wracks his entire body when the angel's hand palms against the bulge in his too-tight pants. "_Fuck_! A-angel," he breathes, "How- When- _What kind of angel knows how to do things like this?_" The words spill out all at once.

Crowley feels Aziraphale smiling against his chest. "One who reads, my dear," he says between soft kisses, interspersed with gentle bites. "One who reads a great deal." He deftly pulls down the zipper of the demon's trousers and slips his hand inside, eliciting a positively sinful growl from deep in Crowley's chest.

"I will buy you every book the planet has to offer," Crowley promises as he gets the last button free and wraps his arms into the cream shirt and around to scratch his nails down Aziraphale's back. "I swear, every last fucking book, and I'll sit here and make sure you read every one."

The sentiment is a silly one, but it makes Aziraphale wriggle and his hand on Crowley moves a little quicker, a little more firmly. His mouth is covering the demon's chest, throat, and shoulders in love bites as he works, sinking teeth into flesh and leaving beautiful red marks that stake his claim. Crowley can't breathe, and it doesn't matter that he doesn't actually _need_ to breathe, because the fact that he _can't_ leaves him lightheaded and struggling. Aziraphale has managed to slip the tight trousers down off the demon's hips and he's now working on the demon's cock in earnest, palming and rubbing and dragging his fingers along it through a pair of snug black pants that offer little resistance.

Through the haze of non-thought Crowley realizes that he's been doing very little for the past several joyous minutes and scrambles for the button on the angel's trousers. They fall to the floor easily, being a much more comfortable fit than the demon's own. Underneath Aziraphale is wearing tartan boxer shorts. The reveal almost makes Crowley laugh out loud, but it's a fond feeling, a warm, safe, comfortable, familiar feeling that overjoys him and adds to the never-ending list of reasons he loves his angel. He runs his long fingers along the bulge of Aziraphale's cock and they both groan wantonly at the sensation.

"Are you sure?" Crowley whispers into his angel's hair, a lingering thread of doubt still clinging to his naturally self-depreciating psyche. "Are you absolutely certain? This is truly what you want?"

Aziraphale pulls back, his lips and hands moving away from Crowley's body, and for a moment the demon thinks he's actually changed his mind, that he's given the angel the out he was looking for.

But the look Aziraphale shoots up at him is one of a deep, carnal intensity that Crowley could have never imagined on his angel's face if he'd had 6000 more years to try to conjure the image. His unbuttoned shirt is hanging beautifully from his ivory shoulders, and the boxer shorts are doing absolutely nothing to conceal the extent of his arousal. He looks positively extraordinary, breathless in the best kind of way, and has just a hint of devilishness in his lidded eyes. "Crowley," Aziraphale hisses (and _oh…_the sound of Aziraphale _hissing…_), "Do shut up."

With that he digs his fingers into the demon's hipbones, and suddenly the world flips upside down and before Crowley can work out what's happened he's reclined on the couch with Aziraphale kneeling in front of him, and the angel has his pants in both hands, working them down past his knees.

"Aziraphale!" Crowley gasps, the wildest machinations of his imagination stuttering to a grinding train wreck of a halt. "What are you-? _NGK_!" And all conscious thought is gone because the angel's soft lips are around the head of his cock, his tongue licking slowly around him in glorious little circles. Crowley's fingers dig into the fabric of the couch, threatening to puncture straight through it, and for a moment he doesn't make any sound because he can't. He simply bloody _can't._

It isn't until Aziraphale leans further down, engulfing him, taking every inch of him in until he hits the back of the angel's throat that Crowley's thought process and ability to vocalize return in full. "Oh FUCK Angel! FUCKING…_FUCK…_"

Aziraphale smiles around him and moves slowly, up and down, again and again, licking as he goes, sucking and pressing his tongue tight against the demon's hot flesh, seeming to somehow go deeper each time, until it feels that he's going to consume Crowley whole. Crowley wants to remain still, wants to let the angel do whatever he goddamn well pleases, but he's helpless to stop the way his back arches and his hips gyrate toward the object of his overwhelmingly inescapable desire.

Somehow, a whisper of a thought manages to flicker through Crowley's over-stimulated mind: he's the only one getting anything out of this arrangement. And he doesn't want that; he wants his angel to feel as good as he's making him feel. So he struggles to bring himself under some kind of control, fully intends to flip the situation and show Aziraphale what he can do for him as well, but he feels his breath hitch in his chest as he looks down and fully examines the situation.

Aziraphale has a look of pure rapture on his face as he glides up and down the demon's cock, devouring every bit of him like the delicious treat he is. His mouth sucks and licks greedily, wanting more, _needing_ more, and with a start Crowley realizes the angel's hand is between his own legs, boxers shucked aside, plump fingers working away at his own throbbing erection.

He's _enjoying_ this. The thought shouldn't be all that shocking, but it really is, and the epiphany of it causes bolts of electricity to shoot all throughout every inch of Crowley's body. He feels a wicked heat in the very depth of his belly, growing hotter and wilder and threatening to throw him over the edge as he stares at his angel pleasuring both of them simultaneously, never meeting a beat. Crowley realizes that there is absolutely no way he's going to survive this encounter. It's discorporation for him for sure.

"_Uhhnn…Angel_," he groans, sputtering, barely able to get the sounds to resemble words. "Angel, look at me."

Aziraphale complies without stopping his ministrations, which, _fuck…_

The words are so hard to get out, but Crowley is determined now. He wants this and needs this and can't go without it a second longer, and he wants his angel to feel the same way. He reaches forward to card his long fingers through soft white curls and grasps at them, desperate for purchase. "Aziraphale…" He moans the name like he's worshipping his creator (which, in some ways, he is, for who would he be without Aziraphale?). "I want…I mean, if _you_ want…_uggnnn…_" His mouth is so dry and he feels like he's going to up and pass out before he can get the request through his lips. "_I need you to fuck me!_" he finally cries.

Aziraphale doesn't stop, but he slows considerably, humming in a way that brings back those bolts of electricity and makes it very difficult for Crowley to retain eye contact. Then, finally, he releases the demon from those heavenly lips, trailing his tongue along the tip of his cock as he pulls away, and instead leans up to press that same tongue into Crowley's mouth.

They explore each other, devour each other, draw life and truth and comfort from each other. And Crowley gasps back into the couch as one miraculously slick finger presses gently into him, quickly followed by a second. It's an incredibly _different_ sensation, more than a little strange, and yet so, so enticing. Aziraphale licks and nibbles Crowley's bottom lip as he scissors his fingers, working the demon open with gentle, loving movements that make Crowley sigh and twitch and whimper. The sounds drive Aziraphale on. He bites a little harder at Crowley's lip as he slips in a third finger and, plunging them deep, curls them to strike a specific bundle of nerves.

Crowley almost comes right then, his back arching in a way that only a reptile's can manage, a sound that is the very definition of _pleasure-and-pain_ saturating the air of the bookshop. "OH FUCK, Angel!" he sobs, gasping for air. "Oh fuck, fuck…_FUCK!_"

"Is that the only word you know, my dear?" the angel scolds, a wicked smile on his lips.

"_All of the books!_" Crowley cries as the fingers move in and out and curl around that spot again, building the pressure with every stroke. "I swear to fuck, Angel, you're going to need a whole _library_ all to yourse-" His words cut off with a whimper and a whine as the fingers suddenly disappear and leave him feeling empty.

Aziraphale snatches up his demon's chin in one hand. "You don't have to bribe me, my love," he breathes against Crowley's lips before pressing their mouths together hungrily. While they work their tongues around each other, he lines himself up and pushes his cock delectably, torturously, slowly into Crowley as the demon cries out around his lips. They shudder together, bodies hot and pulsing, and _oh,_ neither of them has ever been so deliciously covered in sweat before. It seems to take forever before Aziraphale bottoms out, and then he pulls back just as slowly, just as torturously, drawing the beautifully wicked moan from his demon lover and revelling in the wonder of being able to pull that sound from him.

"You're so fucking beautiful," Aziraphale whispers against the demon's jaw, and Crowley whimpers again at the sound of profanity from his angel's lips. "Do you know that?" He pulls almost all the way out before beginning to move in again. "Do you know how often I've fantasized about your beautiful body, knowing I could never have it, terrified to touch you lest Hell find out and steal you away from me?" Their bodies pressed together and he began to pull out again. "Do you know how often I've read sinful stories and imagined it was you and me, wrapped together this way, fucking the living daylights out of each other?"

Tears are rolling down Crowley's eyes, and he hates it, but _he loves it_. He wraps his arms around Aziraphale, kneading his fingers into the angel's shoulders, dragging them down along the place where his wings would sprout, eliciting a pleasurable groan. "Not as many times as I've fantasized about you," the demon wagers, rocking his hips forward as Aziraphale moves back toward him. His body is so tight and the angel's cock is stretching him just right, making his body shudder and cry for more, more, more. "You have no idea, angel," he moans. "Every night for millennia. It was always you, only you, the only one I could ever think of, the only one I ever wanted."

His words add fire to the lust in Aziraphale's eyes, and suddenly now he's moving faster, thrusting with purpose, tilting his hips just so in a way that hits that spot and makes Crowley keen and cry and _beg_. It's a surprise when wings of blackest night burst from the demon's back, flinging away the bits of clothes that they'd left draped on the couch, but it's a very pleasant surprise. Aziraphale reaches back as he thrusts and scrapes his fingers against the sensitive spots where wings meet skin and is elated by Crowley's violent vibrations. His wings flail back much in the same way his back arches: pulling, reaching, never quite able to stretch far enough.

"I'm-" Crowley gasps, "I'm not gonna last much longer, Angel." He wants to it to last forever, never wants this to stop, but there are limits to a human body after all.

Aziraphale thrusts harder, faster, and bites down on Crowley's earlobe at the same time he wraps his fingers into Crowley's flaming red hair and pulls. "_Come for me, my love,_" he hisses, and angles himself to hit that spot with everything he has.

Like he'd been waiting for permission, Crowley comes undone all at once. His head is thrown back in a wonderful, terrible, shuddering scream, spine arched impossibly, wings thrown out in a violent display of loss of control. Books fly off shelves and knickknacks crash to the floor, a cacophony, a symphony to accompany the vocalization of the demon's breaking point. His entire body pulses and throbs, pleasure and pain at their most intricately woven, hips bucking mindlessly as a stream of white covers both their bodies and fireworks burst in the back of his head.

The sight of his gorgeous demon being unmade makes Aziraphale's body twitch and squirm. Suddenly a second pair of wings, white as snow, have burst into being in the small shop. More books go flying, more shattering items litter the floor. Aziraphale can't care less, couldn't if he'd tried. All his attention, everything he has within himself, is focused on the divine creature beneath him, his rough skin slick with sweat and the glistening evidence of his orgasm, his body twitching in violent aftershocks that have his blown out eyes rolling back in his head.

Aziraphale drinks in the sight, depths of pleasure he could never have fathomed coursing through him, and thrusts a handful more times before his own world explodes, filling his lover's body to the brim. He gasps and pants and feels every muscle in his body tensing and relaxing in tandem, pulses of sweet pleasure rippling throughout, taking him past the point of no return. Wings beat madly, white feathers littering the room. His fingers curl around Crowley's hip and shoulder and squeeze hard enough to leave bruises, and finally he collapses against the demon, unable to hold himself aloft any longer.

They lay like that for a long time, panting, sweat dripping down their bodies, hearts unsure whether they'll ever beat properly again. Wings twitch and breaths hitch. They're both giddy and exhausted, blissed out and totally spent, minds working to comprehend the fact that_ that_ just happened.

Debauched. Completely and utterly debauched, both of them.

Eventually Aziraphale manages to gather his wits enough to pull out of Crowley's body, drawing a final small whimper from the demon as the sensation of fullness is taken away. He wraps his arms around his lover and shifts them both so that he's laying flat on the couch with Crowley on top of him, looking down at him with a Universe of love in his reptilian eyes. Aziraphale's wings droop, totally exhausted, over the couch and floor. Crowley's curl protectively around the two of them, wrapping them in a soft black cocoon, hidden away from the rest of the world.

Crowley reaches up with one long finger to stroke the angel's feather-soft face. "I think we rather destroyed your bookshop," he says with a wicked grin.

The thought should distress Aziraphale, but all he can do is return the smile and run a hand across Crowley's back, teasing the ticklish spot between his wings. "That's what miracles are for," he tells his demon. "And even if we couldn't fix it, I'd destroy it a thousand times over to be where we are right now."

For Crowley this, strangely, more than anything, brings light to the fact that Aziraphale _really does love him_, really does want and need and desire him. _Fuck the books, my demon is what's important right now._ The thought fills Crowley's heart to breaking and he can't stop the sob that crawls out of his throat as he dives in to claim his angel's swollen lips once more. "I love you," he whispers into the kiss. And again, "I love you, I love you, I love you."

"And I you, my darling," Aziraphale whispers in return, "And I plan to spend the rest of our existence proving it over and over again."

Despite his thoroughly fucked state and the fatigue settling over him, urging him to curl up and fall asleep on his angel's chest, Crowley feels his lower body give a little twitch. "I think I like the sound of that, Angel," he growls, and ducks in to nibble the angel's neck, causing a fit of happy, blissful giggles. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So that's that! Please let me know what you thought. :) 
> 
> If you enjoy my writing, please check out my other stuff by browsing my blog over at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com!

**Author's Note:**

> If you enjoy my writing, please check out my other stuff by browsing my blog over at http://traceytobin.wordpress.com!


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